I Am Poisyn
by Alexxus Anderson
Summary: Sequel to 'An End to War' picks up over a year after the outbreak of Protocol 22.
1. Chapter 1

The Chancellor pushed open the doors to the private rooms of the woman he had been told by the Master to call Poisyn. His interaction with her up to that point had been limited to a few words of greeting and only in the Master's presence. Now, he was having to speak with her alone for the first time and he was slightly nervous. Or perhaps more than slightly since his hands shook as he put them up against the heavy wooden doors. The doors swung inward easily, soundlessly, keeping his entrance a secret, for the moment, from its occupant.

The woman he had come to see was moving through the space in the center of the room, a slender sword in her hand. The sword point traced a brief arc in the air and the next thing he knew, it was buried in the doorframe next to his head, a quivering shaft of steel with an ornate handle.

"Gentlemen knock when they enter a lady's chamber," her voice was low, husky, sultry, and somehow cold. Large, dark eyes with edges of a nasty green fixed on him, the markings covering the right side of her face, flaring up with what could only be a suppressed anger.

Chancellor bowed to her. This was not a woman like War who did not stand on ceremony. She was obviously well bred and probably several times more dangerous. While War would attack from the front, this one who sidle up and kiss before killing, infinitely more dangerous.

"Forgive me, but the Master summons," he said quietly. "He wishes you to attend him in the throne room."

"The time has come for us to begin," a smile crossed her face, her eyes lighting with an internal fire. "He is ready for us to go forth and bring his word to the world." Poisyn strode across the room, stopping as she would pass the Chancellor, bringing the tips of her fingers to his chin. Bringing his face close to her own, almost brushing his lips with her own, she said,

"When you enter my chambers from now on, you will knock. Understood?"

He couldn't help but shiver, the stories of her kisses and what they could do in the forefront of his mind. Chancellor nearly swallowed his tongue before answering.

"Of course, Mistress Poisyn."

She did not acknowledge his agreement save by removing her touch from his skin. With a twitch of her skirt, she was out of the room and down the hall, leaving him to scramble to catch up. And scramble he did, understanding that this woman was more like the Master, impeccable and more than willing to harm those who did not live up to her expectations.

* * *

Nathaniel Essex walked down the pristine halls of St. Ash, the newest hospital on the Isle of Great Britain with his hands clasped behind his back, his assistant scuttling along behind him with a clipboard as he rattled off care instructions as he got to each room door on a long hallway.

His black suit was crisply pressed; he had a housekeeper for good reason, standing in stark contrast to his bleached paper white face. Red eyes gleamed behind a pair of completely unnecessary, but still rather chic, black spectacles. Somehow they made him seem slightly more personable, at least until he smiled. The cannibal sharp teeth did nothing for his bedside manner. Of course, it didn't matter to him that he frightened most of his patients into near convulsions, but in an effort to not frighten people to death he keep his mouth rather firmly shut when he wasn't talking. He had been invited to run this hospital by the Human nations since he had managed to control the spread of Protocol 22, but he was still on human soil, so he had to make concession toward his guesthood.

"Anne, are you listening," he snapped at his assistant.

"Yes, Dr. Essex," Anne was a slight girl, barely old enough to even be legally considered an adult, with a fawning interest in the masterful and intelligent Dr. Essex. When the opening for an assistant had come up she had been the first applicant. There had only been five. The other four had not passed his preliminary aptitude test. Anne had passed the aptitude test and the personality survey apparently as she was called back to take up the position as his assistant within mere days.

"Good, Room 304," he continued, expecting that she was going to take the necessary notes and had the information on the patient in that room somewhere in the manifest she had in her hands.

Protocol 22 from its first outbreak had ravaged the human community leaving behind entire areas that were so utterly decimated as far as population that they had become wastelands. Entire cities completely abandoned as the infrastructure that ran them collapsed in on itself under the weight of its responsibility and its utter lack of personnel.

Essex had to give his former wife credit; when she created a plague, she created something worthy of the title. 'The Protocol' as it had become known had a contact spread rate of nearly a hundred percent and a fatality rate of 95. Those who contracted the disease and survived were almost universally left with little or no brain function due to the prolonged low oxygen levels the disease caused. He had created a vaccine to nearly halt its spread, but those who had already caught it prior to the widespread availability of the vaccine were sent to St. Ash to live out their days, leaving Essex in charge of an entire hospital of patients with no ability to say no to his wishes. No one made mention of this fact, or that Essex had chosen all of his own staff and received no oversight from the British government. He was after all the savior of the human race, what were they going to tell him, no?

A phone rang at Anne's belt. It was a slim silver affair, something no nonsense like someone with no interest in cellphones would have. Anne juggled her clipboard, pen, and the phone deftly, long practice apparent in her movements.

"Dr. Essex's office," she answered without hesitation despite the fact that they were in the ward and not the office. _Anne, tell Dr. Essex that I need to speak with him immediately. _"Ah huh," she replied to the person on the phone. "Dr. Essex," she offered him the phone after a few seconds.

Essex closed one white-gloved hand over the phone bringing it to his ear.

_Dr. Nathaniel_ _Essex?_

"Yes?"

_Johnathan Andrews, sir, Burnt Heart Cemetery. You had the body of your wife moved here when you returned to Britain. There appears to have been some vandalism to your wife's crypt. Your presence is requested at your earliest possible convenience to discuss repairing the damages and the reburial of the body. Whoever did this removed her body from the crypt entirely. Please come as soon as possible, sir._

He stood there for one minute exactly, the phone to his ear looking rather like a man who belonged on Wall Street, his face impassive as whoever was on the other end explained the situation.

"I see," was all he said before flipping the phone shut with a definitive snap. He handed it back to Anne, his face still very much a mask. He did not doubt that the vandalism had occurred. It was general knowledge that his wife had engineered a virus that had killed off more than a third of the human population on Earth. There was surely going to be some kind of retaliation for that. That did not, however, make him willing to forgive those who had taken her body from its resting place. He had very carefully considered the decision to move her when he returned to Britain. Only after realizing that he wanted to be able to see her from his home did he finally decide to move her body to what would be her final resting place.

"Anne, I am unfortunately going to have to leave to handle some personal business. Take the orders for room 304 and duplicate them for rooms 305-315. The orders for 400-415 are going to be the same as yesterday's."

"Has something happened, Dr. Essex?"

"Yes, Anne, but it's nothing to worry about. Please, finish those orders for me and then you have the afternoon to yourself. I will not be returning today."

He turned back toward the stairs and walked away, leaving his assistant staring owlishly at his back. Anne shifted from foot to foot, obviously unsure what to do in this situation. Then, chewing on her lip, she set to furiously copying the orders for the five nurses that Essex kept on night duty.

* * *

Burnt Heart Cemetery was the ancestral resting place of the Ascher family, the family that had brought his deceased wife into the world. The family that had driven her to seek what help she could for a then unnamable difference in her. The family that had driven her into his arms. Practically in the backyard of the Ascher manor, called Ever Rest, the cemetery was quiet, exclusive, and secluded. Now two men stood outside a stone building, one in overalls, grungy and tired looking; the other wore a black suit looking unnatural among the heavy, ancient oak trees that grew among the graves.

The door to the building had been blown off with some kind of low class explosive. Just enough to destroy the door, but not the building itself. Inside on the floor was the body of Mrs. Essex, looking as if the person who had been in process of carrying her had simply dropped her in the center of the floor. She looked rather like some kind of life-size doll in her black dress. Nathan had resisted the urge to go in and gather her up off the ground; it simply seemed incorrect for her to be left that way. But the police needed to come and take their pictures first.

"Sir, I didn't see anything. But I promise to double the security, no man should have to worry about his loved ones being pulled up like this."

Nathan made no reply immediately, his eyes intent on the form that lay on the crypt floor. Something, no, everything about it was wrong. The color of her hair, the shape of her face, the length of her limbs, everything was just slightly off.

"Mr. Andrews, I am right in assuming that you have notified the police of this criminal act?"

"Yes, sir, they just haven't shown up yet, Dr. Essex."

"Go wait for them at the gate, I want a moment with her." Nathan waited until Johnathan had shuffled off before he entered the crypt, stepping around the body lightly in an effort not to disturb anything. He hadn't looked at her too closely, unwilling to acknowledge that he had come back and she had not when he had first awoken, but now he studied the face of the body that had supposedly been his wife. His mind came to the conclusion quickly, that this was not indeed his wife, but some facsimile that had fooled many, including himself.

He was not a man given to swearing, but he let loose a string of curses. If this was the body in his wife's grave, where was **his wife**?

* * *

"You summoned me, Master," Poisyn stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to Apocalypse's throne.

"Yes, I sent for you. You and War are to go and collect Famine. It is time for her to be returned to the fold. Go. I have told War what you must know. Do not return without Famine."

"Of course, Master," Poisyn bowed to him in acknowledgement of his orders and looked to the one who had been designated as her partner. "Shall we go?"

"Yeah, let's," War had obviously been waiting, somewhat impatiently, for Poisyn to show up. But then War was always impatient. The two women walked away, leaving Apocalypse and the Chancellor alone in the throne room.

"You fear her rightly. She is one that I will have to control tightly," said Apocalypse to Chancellor.

"As you say, Master," agreed the Chancellor, suppressing the urge to shudder once again. If even the Master considered her a possible threat, she truly must be dangerous indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

Nathan looked down at his watch, his keys rattling in the door of his flat. It had been a rather short day in his estimation. Normally, he would still be sitting in his office with his experimentation notes all around him, Anne already gone for the day. Of course, this was not a normal day.

_She wasn't dead._

The door swung open to his push. It still looked a lot like it had when he had originally owned it. Almost exactly as it did when she had first showed up in his life. How many years ago was it now? He had forgotten, the year she had appeared having become unimportant as he realized that she wasn't going to die any year soon.

_She wasn't dead._

That thought kept intruding, kept needling him. If she wasn't dead, where was she now? Why couldn't he touch her as he had been able to do for so many years; when he could reach for her across continents and touch her awake or sleeping. Why wasn't she where she belonged, at his right hand?

He shut the door behind himself, the gestures to put his keys away automatic. Turning to his right, he went through the parlor and into the kitchen. She had cooked when she felt like it. It was a skill that hadn't meant anything to either of them. He often forgot to eat and she didn't even really need to, not for nutrients anyway. Then it had ceased to matter for either of them.

Continuing through, he went out the kitchen door and through the courtyard to his laboratory. He needed the peace, he needed to concentrate, he needed to find out why she didn't respond to him when he called her if she still walked the Earth.

**LENNETH!** This was not the call of a distressed lover, but closer to the yell an angry owner uses for a misbehaving dog. **WHERE ARE YOU?

* * *

**

Poisyn stopped in mid-step, turning her head, a look of confusion slipping across her face. Then it was gone, whatever it was that brought her to a stop. Of course, her momentary lapse was enough to make the ever-impatient War nearly go to the foot tapping of why the devil am I waiting for you?

"Ya ready?"

"More than ready. It's time to go about his business."

"Just wonderin'. Yah looked all lost there for a second."

"It's nothing and it won't happen again. Neutralize her quickly. I'll handle any opposition."

War looked for a moment as if she were going to protest, but she just shrugged. If Poisyn wanted to be in charge of running interference, then why argue? She was going to have her hands full with Famine.

* * *

Nathaniel went back into the house after an hour, leaving behind his laboratory, his work unfinished. It made no sense. He couldn't sense her. For over a hundred years, the merest thought of her had brought him her placement in the world, had told him the mood she was currently in, everything that he needed to know in order to monitor her. Now, his repeated attempts brought him nothing. As though she really were dead. But she wasn't. He knew that. He knew that she was somewhere. Why was she beyond his reach?

It irritated him. It had taken him years to prefect her. She was his; Lenneth Ascher was his.

"Where are you," he muttered aloud to himself as he divested himself of his suit. His body armor was beneath, but he made a point of keeping that detail to himself. No use in making the humans suspicious or combative.

* * *

"Australia," Poisyn stood in the hallway outside of the room where War was fighting with Famine to bring her back into the fold. She hadn't even marked her own speaking, especially not with the sound of breaking furniture and rushing wind coming from inside the room. Absently, she blew a kiss to the empty hallway.

"Poisyn," War screamed. "Git her before Ah have ta damage her."

It was honest that Poisyn wasn't paying attention. Famine, however, was paying attention, stopping at the sight of Poisyn.

"Madame Essex," Storm's white hair stood on end at her neck. First Rogue returns from the dead, now Lenneth? What sorcery was this? "How can this be?"

"I don't know who you speak of, Famine darling, but we have work that needs be completed and you can no longer be allowed to shrug your duties."

A swipe of Poisyn's nails delivered enough paralyzing agent to freeze Storm's muscles, and they left behind a set of parallel stripes across Storm's cheek.

"Pity to mark you so, Famine, but you'll understand better when things are as they should be again."

Hurried footsteps drew her attention away from the African woman who was struggling to breath. Poisyn turned her head just enough to look down the hallway with one glittering eye.

"Take her, War," Poisyn waved her compatriot off. "I will handle our pursuit. The Master's patience wears thin and Famine must be reminded of her place before he can proceed."

The snarl on War's face said that she knew everything that Poisyn was saying and didn't very well need to be reminded by one so newly awakened. Yet she knew that taking on a woman who could kill with the very air was not a bright choice. Instead War fixed her face, thoughts of revenge toward the top of her mind, gathered up Storm in her arms and took off through the home that Storm and Remy had built around their son.

Their little boy wasn't screaming as Remy rounded the corner and burst into the small home that he shared with the women who had become the light of his life and their baby. He had his staff and a card in hand, prepared to do battle. He wasn't prepared for the sight of a woman, a dead woman, standing in the floor gently talking to his baby, his son, held lightly in her arms.

"Shush," the dark haired woman said to the bundle in her arms, not looking up at him. All around her were signs of battle, but she was so quiet, so still, that she seemed to be no part of that world around her. "Hush, little one."

"Put 'em down," Remy called to her, his voice suddenly back in his throat. "Please, Madame Essex, put 'em down."

"Quiet, you'll frighten him," Poisyn said mostly to herself, she was paying Remy very little attention. "We must be careful how we speak around children." Gently, she laid the baby back in his cradle and tucked him. "He will grow up to be a darling boy, won't he, my son?"

Lenneth wasn't really his mother, Remy knew that, but she had been the one to hold him like she had just held his son, back when he was still wrapped in blankets. He blinked, once again stunned by realizing that this was the woman who had held him at that age, the same woman he had slept with years later, that he had almost fallen in love with. Shaking his head, he tried to clear his vision; this was too surreal. She was gone when he opened his eyes again.

Mind barely working, he stumbled over to a wall communicator, pressing the button wildly, his normally calm voice rising to a scream. His son started to scream along with him.

* * *

Nathaniel arrived in Australia the next day, no suitcase in hand, he didn't need one and now that he was back on mutant owned soil, he could openly wear his body armor.

"Tell me what you saw."


	3. Chapter 3

She stalked along the rooftop of the King Charles inn, her mind a crowd screaming a dozen different things. The little boy she had held, such a beautiful baby boy, her grandson. But how was that possible? Poisyn stopped, the slightly rank breeze from the Thames ruffling her dark hair. She had always been a child of the Master Apocalypse, hadn't she? If that was true, there was no possible way for her to have given birth to a child, much less for that child to have become grown enough to have a baby of his own. Yet there was no denying that the little boy she had held was her grandson and the man who had come in was her son.

None of it made any sense. Standing on the London roofs, she considered what to do. Why was she here, in this dark, sapien-infested city? There had been something calling her, something seeking to draw her from the Master's side. It had succeeded.

No one appeared to notice when she reached ground level, blending into the crowd, just another pale beautiful woman with a strange facial tattoo wearing tailored and tasteful clothing in black. Poisyn knew where she was going, even if she didn't know how.

--

Nathaniel Essex had just returned from his cellar when he was certain that he heard someone above him in his private quarters. The idea that someone would have the gall to steal from him caused a shadow to pass across his scarlet eyes. Humans so rarely seemed to have the good sense to be properly afraid.

He made no attempt to be quiet on the stairs; after all, this was his house.

The culprit was not in his private rooms, but rather across the hall, in his former wife's bedroom. A woman in black stood with her back to him, looking at the things left on the vanity from days long since passed. She didn't notice him at first, standing in the doorway watching her. Picking up a silver brush, she studied it for several long moments. Then she put it back down, seeing him in the mirror for the first time.

Even as composed as Nathaniel typically was, he could not deny his surprise to see his darling wife's eyes and the unmistakable taint of Apocalypse's control covering the right side of her face.

"Lenneth," he said her name aloud as all the pieces fell into place. Her supposed death, her reappearance, his inability to contact her, all made such perfect sense that he kicked himself for not having realized it before.

"That name," she turned toward him, lifting her chin proudly. "Means nothing to me."

"Then who are you?" Unreasonable anger flowed through him, but not at Lenneth, no. She was no more than a pawn in a power struggle between titans.

"I am Poisyn," she answered.

"Poisyn," he knew that name. It was a work name, a name that she used when she didn't want her real name to be known. It was a name bathed in blood. A name she had given up at the birth of their youngest daughters. Children who would have been in their thirties if they had lived. That name had been killed, completely destroyed.

Now it rose; a restless phantom from an unclosed grave, that name and all its connotations.

"You took Storm from Remy," he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. There was no need, but it was a private conversation, some old habits died hard.

"Famine has been gone from the Master's side too long. She needed to return, even if she did not know it."

"Ah," he sounded like he not only understood but agreed. Was Apocalypse recruiting new horsemen? It made too much logical sense for it not to be the answer. Poisyn as Pestilence, Storm as Famine, that left the roles of War and Death. But who would Nur choose for those positions? "You got to hold your grandson as well I understand," he continued on conversationally.

"I have no children."

The flatness of her denial left him momentarily speechless. Physically, this was the same woman; mentally, worlds apart from the woman she used to be.

"You are deceived," he contradicted her. "Your children, all but one, lie in their graves. As I believed you did," yet his tone remained calm.

She opened her mouth to say something in return, but was interrupted.

_Poisyn, _the commanding voice of her Master rang through her mind. _Return to me!_

Distracted, she turned away from the man speaking to her, bringing her hand to her temple. As if she owed him an explanation, she said,

"I must go, he calls for me."

"Wait," Nathan said as she turned to leave.

"You cause my delay," she looked at him over her shoulder, one hand on the window frame.

"Say one thing for me," he half-commanded.

"What," she was willing to indulge him.

"Nathan," he supplied for her.

"Nathan," she said for him and somewhere in those emerald depths, a flicker of recognition moved when she said her husband's name. Then she was gone, leaving Nathaniel standing in what could be considered a museum to a relationship that had seen more resurrections than Christ.

The Chancellor wiped his sweating palms on his robe. The Master had commanded that he go speak with Poisyn following her return. In his mind, Poisyn was a force of nature, stronger than the beat of every heart she had ever stopped, deeper than the depth of blood she had spilled during her lifetime. Were that not enough, she was apparently upset. She had returned and shut herself into her room without speaking to anyone.

There was no slamming of doors or screams of frustration, only a complete silence coming from the rooms where she slept alone. The Chancellor walked down the hall toward her door, weaving his fingers together over and over again. How would she react to his intrusion?

The door was firmly shut again him when he reached it. Were it not for the Master's directive that he speak with Poisyn, the closed door would have turned him back. Then it cracked, and her voice floated toward him.

"Why are you here?"

"The Master sends his regards."

"Empty words," came her reply. He could see just a slice of her face through the crack in the doorway. Her single visible eye, a poisonous green, sent a chill down his spine. He gripped the edges of his sleeves in shaking fingers.

"He wishes to know what ails you," he tried to continue the conversation.

"Chancellor," she said quietly, stepping up close enough to press her lips through the crack in the door. "Go away if you value your life. If the Master wishes to inquire after me, he may do so." The door slammed immediately after.

He refused to breath until he reached the other end of the hallway, certain that she had poisoned the air around her door. The Chancellor needed to speak with the Master immediately. Even through his fear, he had felt the unsettled nature of Poisyn. Something needed to be done, now or she stood to become an opponent to the Master's wishes.

--

Sinister laid in the darkness, aware that he was shocked. He had not been expecting to see her again; despite the fact that he had known she was not dead. All too aware since he had studied the corpse buried in her crypt.

She had looked good to his eye, despite time and that atrocious tattoo. The touch of Apocalypse. It showed on those who had given their lives over to the self-proclaimed ruler/liberator of the world. He had lost her to the creature he had tried, on more than one occasion, to destroy. The memory of Nur entering their life was still clear, crystal clear, even for the years that had passed since the occurrence. Lenneth, then still his new bride, had been opposed to allowing him into their lives. At least until Nur had shown her something that had silenced her opposition, even now Sinister did not know what Nur had shown his wife. If he were the kind of man to believe in regret, Nathaniel might have thought about how much he should have listened to his wife. Regret, fortunately, was not something he wasted his time with.

He picked up the wedding band she had given him and turned it over in his hand. It was the right size, even if it was only his because she had slaughtered the original owner and given it to him.

"Lenneth Elizabeth Ascher-Essex," he said her full name into the surrounding darkness. "You promised yourself to me and I will insure that you keep that promise."

--

Poisyn stopped in the middle of the page, her mind stuck on the word 'devotion' when her door opened to reveal the gray form of her Master. Tossing her book aside, she rose from where she had been lounging to bow hastily before him.

"You honor me, Master," she said quickly. "May I offer you a seat?"

He only continued to regard her with cold eyes for long seconds. Then his tone was deceptively mild.

"You upset my Chancellor. He sees reason to doubt you."

"Your Chancellor," she began, her voice taking on a slight sneer. "I mean no disrespect to you, Master, spooks at his own shadow." Her eyes were sharp if empty, life only barely appearing in their depths. "His counsel is only useful to the paranoid."

"Poisyn," he said fondly. "You speak so disparagingly of him. Tell me why I sensed you in London."

"I was drawn there," she said sitting back down on her bed. "I don't know why and all I found were more questions."

Apocalypse covered the distance between them until he was standing over her. She leaned back to get away from him.

"What questions," he inquired, his voice still almost light. He could hear her swallow as he leaned over her.

"I was hearing someone speaking to me, Master," she admitted, turning away from him, guilt in her posture. "He was in London, he calls me by another name. A name that isn't mine, yet somehow feels as if it should be."

The gray man took a hold of her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"His name?"

Poisyn sat silent, her eyes caught with his. The only sound that passed between them was her slightly hurried breathing.

"His name," he repeated, suppressed violence in his touch.

"He asked me to say the name Nathan."

Apocalypse released her, taking a step back. Then he turned to leave.

"Perhaps the Chancellor is correct, I do have reason to question your loyalty to me."

"No, Master," she disagreed hurriedly. "Never."

"Then prove that to me, my dear Poisyn. Why don't you go kill Nathan for me?"


	4. Chapter 4

"War, do not presume," Poisyn looked at her 'sister' in service and let her eyes slip into that cut gaze that made her appear almost as deadly as she actually was. "I have been given a mission; you are not invited to accompany."

The discussion had started with Poisyn stalking past War without so much as the base acknowledgement of a hello, too preoccupied with the request made by their shared master to even take notice of the other woman. War, of course, reached out and brought her 'sister' to a halt with one hand.

"Just where do you think you're going," she snapped unhappily. Bad enough that Poisyn had come into their little cadre and seemed to immediately outrank her, but now she wasn't even worthy of a 'hello'. That was not going to be allowed to stand. Poisyn had, of course, looked down at the hand on her arm and proceeded to pull away, though she wasn't strong enough to break War's grip.

"You detain me unnecessarily, War," said Poisyn, tone flat, level, and unpleasant. "I have a mission to complete."

"Well, then I guess we'd better get going then."

"War, do not presume. I have been given a mission; you are not invited to accompany," Poisyn's green eyes narrowed dangerously.

"What the hell makes you so important you get to go do things on your own," War let her go, crossing her arms over her chest, the tattoo on her face stark red against pale skin flaring to light with her displeasure. "Or he got you paying penance for something?"

"If he wishes you to know, he will answer your inquiries; I however will not. Go to him; I have a mission to complete." Considering the conversation at an end, Poisyn walked away, her every movement seeming clear cut as if they snapped through the air around her.

"Arrogant bitch," murmured War watching Poisyn leave. "If the Master weren't so keen on her, I'd snap her neck."

"From what I've heard, that wouldn't mean anything. She's survived having her body broken, her mind nearly destroyed, being burned alive, more gun shot wounds than any physical form should be able to support," offered the Chancellor as he stepped out of the opposing doorway into the room. "She is nearly as indestructible as you yourself, War."

"Nearly, that means she can be killed," War sounded almost hopeful.

"Yes, because so can you. Be careful of raising her ire toward you, War. She may decide to destroy you first." He closed the distance between them and gently took a handkerchief from his pocket. With it covering his fingers, he gingerly took a hold of War's chin. "I would not want to see anything happen to you." The kiss that they shared was so brief that it might not have happened at all.

"From what I've heard, you should be more worried about yourself. It isn't like him sending you as his messenger is endearing you to her."

"I am covered by being under the Master's orders to approach her. If you begin a confrontation, you have no such protection. Best to stay away from her for now. Something she has done has upset the Master greatly. No need for you to catch her taint. He will make a decision regarding her based upon her activities; we are simply to wait. Perhaps you will get your wish, lo.." War stopped him with her fingertips. He was never to use that word for her outloud. Not where anyone could possibly hear them. It might raise questions about their loyalty should they profess to love one another and not the Master and his dream. The contact was enough to send a small arc of power between them, causing them both to draw back slightly from the shock.

"You remember what I would forget," he said to her lightly, holding his eyes with hers. "I will not be so careless again."

"But you will, as you've been a hundred times before. So far you've been lucky."

"So far, we've been lucky," he corrected, pocketing the handkerchief again. That piece of cloth had a very exclusive purpose, shield his skin from hers. It never saw another purpose, nor would it ever again.

* * *

Nathaniel Essex looked at the clock across the room from him without seeing it. He had retired to one chair in his sitting room after the apparition that had been his wife disappeared through the open window. It was just as Remy had described, she was a perfect replica of herself, save for that horrifying tattoo; seemingly without any memory at all of what had transpired in the more than 200 years she had spent in life. One hand absently twirled a snifter of brandy that he hadn't really been drinking. He felt no need for it, yet for some reason he found its presence comforting? Since when had he needed some species of comfort given by a material object? Not since before she had entered into his world.

His recollection of her entrance was still crystal clear after all the years that had passed between them. All the times when she had threatened to never speak to him again. Something that neither of them ever put any stock in. He allowed such a threat to pass in one of his ears and out the other without making any impression at all on his consciousness. She would go and she would return rather like the seasons, when the time was right, she would simply be there. Just like the seasons, he had come to take her for granted it seemed.

Mortally wounded, he had cried out for her and she had come, the one he had turned into his angel of mercy and vengeance. She had born him strong children, children almost worthy of the Essex name with their power and ferocity. The greatest of those their eldest daughter, Raven. He detested the name that she had taken for herself during her younger years, but it was the one to which the girl clung and he allowed it to pass. Raven. Their eldest had fallen. Lenneth had nearly fallen with her.

Four of their five children had fallen before his fall. He could still remember Lenneth kneeling on the floor surrounded by their photographs. She made no sound, but the soft tapping against the photograph paper said that she was indeed crying. Nathan closed his hand over the feeling of her hair in his grip.

"You're going," she had asked him, looping one arm around his legs.

"Yes, I am."

"Nathan is going with you?"

"He is."

"Take care of him, Nathan, please," her tone was only just shy of begging. "He's all we have left."

"Lenneth, that is not true. He is the last of those who have come so far. But there will always be time for more," they had eternity given Lenneth's rate of cellular breakdown and his own lack of any true mortality. There would be time a plenty once the humans were put in their place.

Or there would have been, if she had not died only to be resurrected by his greatest enemy. The snifter shattered. Nathan shook glass shards and brandy onto his carpet seemingly without caring. If it still mattered to him later, he would clean it up.

Once again, he replayed what Remy had told him about Lenneth holding her grandson. Lenneth had always been terribly attached to their children, so much so that the only greater devotion in her body was to him. She would slaughter her children for him, but against anyone else, they would find their death quickly against her wrath. Nathan levered himself up out of the chair, once again looking at the clock. It was too late for anyone to be at the hospital where he worked, which suited him fine. The night nurses knew better than to disturb him when he chose to come in.

He nearly left his coat on his way out. It wasn't cold to him, but it still would not do for him to draw unnecessary attention.

* * *

Poisyn crawled back in the window that she had exited previously, somehow knowing that the occupant of the house was not actually home. Well, that did nothing to help her current predicament. The Master had requested that she kill Nathan. This Nathan who felt so inexplicably familiar and called her by a name that she did not own but felt some kinship to. Once again, she found herself drawn to the dressing table and the silver hairbrush set on top of it. Lightly, she touched the article in question, closing her eyes and letting her fingers wander across the surface. It was nearly as if she remembered the pattern on the back of the brush, flowers and vines.

It couldn't possibly be a memory. Yet as she looked around, she had a feeling of certainty that if she opened the top drawer of that very same vanity, she would find a string of pearls with an onyx pendant in the shape of an eye attached. Just to test her hypothesis, she opened the top drawer of the vanity.

The necklace was not there.

Her mind scoffed at her earlier certainty. She had been wrong. There was nothing familiar about this place, only the sad delusions of a creature who had allowed someone to come between her true self and her purpose. The vanity drawer was slid shut with a light thump. If he was not there, then there was no reason for her to linger. Her mission had been to find and kill Nathan for daring to try and draw her away from the Master's dream.

Now the question became where to find him? He was not home, so by all rights, he had to be somewhere else. Poisyn strode out of the woman's room and into the hallway of the house. There were no pictures lining the hallway as was so often common in other homes where people lived. What photographs there were of the Essex family were all in Australia in a locked case in Lenneth's rooms there. She had always kept them there, Nathaniel was never so sentimental as to care for pictures of either his wife or his children. Yet the lack went unnoticed with just the simple remembrance of walking down this hallway hundreds of times. 30 steps from the door to the curve in the hall that lead to the stairs. 20 stairs from the second floor down to the first where you were immediately confronted by the front door with the kitchen to the left and the sitting room to the right. Or backwards if you happened to be coming in from outside.

At the bottom of the stairs, she looked into the sitting room, her sight overlaid with the memory of the position of the clock. The clock had been moved, probably by some careless housekeeper. Lenneth had always kept that clock in the center of the shelf upon which it sat. Not a single centimeter to the left or right. Centered. And now it was off. Crossing the room, she noted the glass on the carpet and the stains left behind by the brandy that had already soaked in. Had a bottle been broken on the floor? Since when would anyone be drinking in this room of all places? Brandy was best had at the dining room table, directly after dinner. Reaching up to move to clock back to its original position, Poisyn stopped herself. How had she become so distracted? This did not help her in her search for him at all.

Caught in the motion of moving the clock, she startled when Nathan's cellphone, forgotten in spite of his remembering his jacket began to ring. Turning from the clock, she moved toward the offending object, reaching out to pick it up.

* * *

"We shall see if you truly have the strength to keep her," said Nathan triumphantly. 


	5. Chapter 5

The phone continued to ring for what must have felt like an eternity before her hand actually made contact with its slim surface. It was plastic; something she could have easily crushed with less time than it took to truly think to take the action. Then in a motion she wasn't quite aware she even knew, she flipped the phone open, listening to the voice on the other end.

_Mr. Essex, _someone on the other end said. _I know this is probably not the best time to be contacting you about this, but all the necessary changes have been made at the cemetery. They have your wife ready to go back in her crypt, but I wanted to make sure that you'd had a chance to inspect the modifications. First thing in the morning will be fine for you to come back. Just as soon as you've had a chance to look things over, we'll be more than happy to put her back._

Lenneth refrained from making any noise at all and eventually the line went dead. His wife, a cemetery, a crypt. What had occurred and why did she have such a strong urge to view this body? It was there walking along her bones, trying to convince her that it would be no hardship for her to go to this cemetery. No, there was a flaw. She didn't know where the cemetery in question was. Then came a string of thoughts all of which centered around the phrase 'Burnt Heart'. What did a burnt heart have to do with any of this? She set the phone down on the table carefully. What was all of this? First she's fascinated by a hairbrush, then a clock, and now instead of following through with the orders she had been given, she wanted to make a side trip to a cemetery? Had she gone mad? Was this what it was like to be mad; to completely lose one's self to whatever strange forces seemed to coalesce around the mind?

Fingers combed through long white tresses. Part of her desperately wanted to seek her God and his guidance. He would understand where she did not. Yet she did not. Turning, she went back to the out of place clock and moved it to where it should have been in the first place. Then she went back to the second floor, climbed out the window, and onto the rooftop. Forget the mind, let the body lead, the body seemed to know the way. Directly to Burnt Heart Cemetery, the private Cemetery of the Ascher family.

Nathaniel's private lab was equipped with a phone and an answering machine. He generally didn't bother himself with something as pedestrian as answering the phone when he was in the middle of something he deemed vastly more important. In his world, everything was vastly more important than some little thing like a telephone. So the message waited for hours as he worked at the task he had set before himself. The task of resurrection.

He had long since stored the exact DNA combinations of his children in his brain, all five of them. It wasn't terribly hard. Lenneth had always made him promise that he would not do this. That he would never resurrect their children; she couldn't bear to look at clones knowing that she had failed to protect her own offspring originally. Now he was breaking that promise. It was for her own good. If nothing else would break the spell that Apocalypse had woven around her, it would be the voices of her children calling out their dissent. Each of them had learned to distrust, and it could even be called hate, Apocalypse for his role in their parents' lives.

Did he feel any kind of upset for the fact that he was breaking a promise to the woman he had at one point promised to love, honor, and cherish? No. He was doing this for her own good. She would see that once things were done, when the smoke finally cleared and she was herself again. Back at his side where she belonged.

Each of the florid green tubes he had set up to incubate the clones of his children was occupied before he finally sat down at would could have been called a desk and bothered with the phone message he had heard the machine pick up hours earlier.

It was an exact replica of the phone message that Lenneth had picked up when she chose to answer his cell phone. Sitting there at his desk, he had half a mind to simply pick up his phone, call the caretaker back, and say that he had no interest in seeing the modifications to the crypt. One hand rested on the phone receiver for a moment as he debated that decision. No, he picked up his hand again, resting it on top of a pile of notes he had taken on the early stages of incubation, he would go see the 'improvements' they had made to his wife's crypt, though that was not his wife who laid within it. He would once more remind himself that the body that had been desecrated by those who saw her as the bane of all existence was not the body of his wife. His wife, his Lenneth, still strode among the living, touched by a creature that he had devoted his existence to finding a way to destroy.

Locking his lab was simply a matter of leaving, the fail-safes automatically cued to fall into place with his absence. The children would grow undisturbed in his absence. Up the stairs and back into the hospital proper, he made sure to wave at the night security man, his persona as Dr. Essex firmly in place, one of the few nods he bothered with toward the human population and their comfort. It was easy enough to get a taxicab outside of his building.

"Burnt Heart Cemetery," he told the man without hesitation. The caretaker had said the next morning would be soon enough. There was nothing stopping him from taking his own tour that night and simply avoiding the inane chattering the next day. After all, by then, his clones would hopefully be nearly finished. Their oldest child would be awakening and asking for her mother. What would he tell her? He would tell her that her mother was no longer with him. Then he would wait, let them all gather together before he told them the story. Once they were all together, they would no doubt be a formidable enough force to stop the woman who had given birth to them in her tracks. Nathaniel Essex allowed himself to smile as he sat in the backseat of the taxi moving through the London traffic. Apocalypse was certainly the stronger, but he did not know the human heart like Sinister did after all the time that had elapsed. More, he didn't know Lenneth as Nathan did. How could he possibly.

--

The heavy trees of the cemetery seemed to whisper of old days to her as she walked along the graveled paths, eyes taking in every detail, more and more convinced that this place was somewhere that she had been before.

She knew if she crawled up into the lower branches of that oak, she would found a space where she had hidden trinkets during her childhood. Shaking her head, she tried to banish those thoughts. The certainty that she had no childhood forcing those false memories away.

The crypt beckoned her at the end of a path, drawing her toward her as if it held its arms open to her. The caretaker had reinforced the door, but that meant nothing to a woman who could eat metal with her touch. There was nothing but darkness inside the walls, darkness that gave Lenneth no pause and the body that was laid out waiting to be returned to its resting place.

"The late great Lady Lenneth Elizabeth Ascher-Essex," of course, she knew her name. Protocol 22 was famous around the world. The greatest killer of humans ever invented. Surpassing even the Black Death in its ferocity. "How much homage they show you now after your death?"

"How does it feel to look into a sad reproduction of your own face," Nathaniel stood in the doorway, the bare light of world outside the crypt streaming past him, throwing his shadow at her across the floor.

Finally, she did look, truly look, at the woman laid out on the slab before her. Those eyes, softly shut, the lips, all of her face. Every bit of her, who she was, looked so much like the face she had seen in the mirror for so many supposedly remembered years. Poisyn turned to Nathan, her pupils dominating her eyes.

_He was standing at the counter, a plate had just landed on the floor at his feet. His hands were shaking. _

"_Nathan, what's wrong," was that her voice asking him that. _

"Nathan, who am I?"


	6. Chapter 6

Nathiel Essex had known Lenneth Ascher for long enough to be certain that the reaction she was having was genuine. She was confused. It was an expression that he hadn't seen cross her features in years. There had been times when she was frustrated by something that she didn't understand, but that was a completely distinct expression from the facial movements that accompanied confusion. In a way, it was gratifying to know that she was breaking free enough to question. Looking in the other direction, however, it was distressing to realize that she had to question because she didn't know. His wife had lost everything that they had been. iEverything/i. A newborn in the world that she had helped to create. If it wasn't so ridiculous, it would have been ironic.

"What do you remember?" A dangerous question to ask to be certain, but it needed to be asked. He had to know. His human face didn't falter, she would know him in whatever face he wore, yet for the moment he didn't want the ruby eyes and white plaster face, he wanted the face she had married. The one she had said her I Do's to. The face he had worn as he laid down, all unknowingly, to die. "Lenneth." It was her name, no matter what she had been told. He would not let those lies become her truth.

What did she remember? How to articulate the fragments of things that were floating like potatoes in soup broth in her brain. Bubbles rising to the surface only to hold for a second before they popped and left her with nothing, again. That name, what was it about that name? She looked down at the body again, looked at it and tried to make sense of it all. The words refused to come. Turning to look at him, she simply stared before shaking her head in a depressed fashion. She didn't remember anything about him, yet she knew that what she did remember was incomplete now. There was a strange certainty to that. Every time she heard him say that name, she was became more sure that there was something missing. Something that should be, but wasn't. Her breath sounded loud in the crypt space. Impossibly loud for a space so small. Then another sound caught her ear. Poisyn turned her head, just as the wall came crashing in.

War lead Famine through the hole she had busted in the structure, looking with a smile on the fact that Poisyn had been thrown into the far wall and now slumped there as if unconscious. Essex had ducked out of the structure, missing the debris by mere inches. War was gathering Poisyn up in her arms when he stepped back into the doorway.

"Stop," it was a command for all that he didn't raise his voice. The two women looked at him, both marked by the tattoos of Apocalypse on their faces. Then, no words spoken, they nodded to one another and War disappeared back through the hole carrying Poisyn with her, leaving Famine to take care of Essex. Essex, being himself, had far different ideas about what was to go on. He had lost his chance to bring her back, but it was only a minor set-back. Already his plans were in motion and they would yield the results he wanted, only if he got a chance to see them through to fruition. Fighting Famine to the death would not cause that to happen for him. Even as she moved to close the distance between them, he teleported back to his laboratory and sat down to wait. Their eldest would be waking soon, gasping for breath in her tube, and things would truly start to move forward then.

--

Apocalypse was not pacing. He was seated quite firmly on his throne, awaiting the return of the two that he had sent out after his betrayer. The hold he had on Poisyn's mind was slipping. He had felt it when he ordered her to kill her husband. The others would tell him whether his suspicions were correct or not. If he was correct, then it was time to destroy her and begin anew. It would be a great loss considering that he had upheld his portion of the bargain and restored to good health the very man who sought to bring down his plans before he even knew what they were.

The Chancellor was standing at the foot of the stairs, awaiting anxiously any news of the return of War. He twisted the hem of his sleeves with his hands, looking toward the door every few seconds without moving his head. War should have returned already in his estimation. She should have disposed of the traitor and returned long before now. Did he think that she could win against Poisyn should it become an all out fight, no, he did not. War was vulnerable in ways that Poisyn was not. So he believed. Again, he looked to the door and this time it opened. War walked in with Poisyn carried in her arms. Reaching the foot of the stairs, she dumped her parcel unceremoniously there and looked up at her leader with cold eyes.

"She was talking to him, not killing him." With that, she turned to walk away, sparing a glance in the direction of the Chancellor before striding out of the throne room, her step a quick march as if she wanted nothing more than to escape the eyes of her Master.

"What shall I do with her, my Lord," asked the Chancellor, eyes rising to take in Apocalypse's form.

"Gather her up and return her to her chamber," he said with a sweep of his hand. "I will see to her presently." Yet he did not move from his throne, watching dispassionately as Poisyn was gathered up and carried back to her rooms with his compound. He would see to it that she remained there.

--

Essex was drawn back from his work by the sound of water splashing onto the floor. His eldest, Diana, with her shock of white hair was ripping the memory nodes off the sides of her head with impatient hands. She had never liked technology all that much. Granted, most of it didn't work on her very well. Once he jumpstarted her mutation, that would go back to being the case, so he had to make sure her memory was fully restored before then. Getting up from his seat, he walked over to a closet and pulled out hospital scrubs, it would serve to cover her body for the moment. More permanent provisions would be made soon.

"Father," the way his daughter said that word made it clear that she remembered exactly what her relationship with her parent was, far from pleasant. "What's going on?"

"Soon, Diana," he assured her. "I will tell you soon." 


	7. Chapter 7

The woman once known as Mystique had chosen to walk away from the Mutant Nation after the death of Madame Essex and her husband's subsequent rebirth. The entire thing made enough sense for her to piece together a large part of what had occurred, but her conclusions were wrong. She was missing one key piece of evidence, the fact that Apocalypse was once more meddling in the affairs of men. So as she sat in a coffee shop in Soho, near enough to her old New York stomping grounds that she could spit compared to coming from Australia, she was not even wondering exactly what was going on as far as the Essexes were concerned. That book was closed, fully written. Mr. Sinister, Dr. Essex, survived. Mrs. Essex, Poisyn, Chemistry, pick a name and she might well answer to it, did not. Case closed.

Similarly the case of her own adopted daughter, Rogue. She picked up her china coffee cup at the thought, bringing it to her lips and blowing away the steam so that it imitated the smoke from a moving train. Rogue had disappeared years ago, unable to stomach watching the man she had spent most of her young life in a contentious love affair with turn to a woman that she considered her best friend. Lucky for her she didn't stay around to see the beautiful little boy that the two of them had together. Mystique didn't blame her for that. She blamed the others who refused to support her in her pain for driving her away. After all, when everyone is happy but you, who do you turn to for a shoulder? One small sip of coffee and the cup went back to the table. Odd how introspective she was being. Normally, these things would be locked away in the vault of her mind, not truly unconsidered, but treated like rare diamonds. Brought out only on occasions that seemed to warrant it. One partially rainy day in New York hardly seemed to warrant her skipping down the path of Memory Lane.

"Hello, Mama," Mystique did not wear her own face, so how anyone would recognize her, she was unsure, but that voice made that a moot point anyway. Looking up and actually paying attention to the young woman who had stopped at her table, she drew one breath in surprise; then with reflexes honed for decades of work as an undercover operative, she ditched out of her chair and headed for the door, her coffee unpaid for. The older woman didn't need a second glance to know that the woman who wore her daughter's face was not her daughter any longer. She had never seen the marks of Apocalypse up close, but there was no way that Rogue would have allowed anyone to do that to her face were she in her right mind.

Out the door and slam, a gust of wind hit her so hard that the glass front of the shop collapsed around her like a movie prop made of sugar. The wind tossed her backward and into the counter, shards of glass whipping around her in deadly patterns. Then Rogue was there beside her, gathering her up in her arms as the world took on dark edges. She barely felt the skin to skin contact that brought the darkness rushing in to consume her.

War and Famine nodded to one another and rose to fly away, just in time for a member of Johnny Law to come running up to the scene. To him, it was a kidnapping and mutants were involved. Just like that mess in the London cemetery a week ago. Every human settlement on the planet had been alerted to the damage done. So they were supposed to be on their guard. Before he had screeched to a halt and unholstered his gun, he had radioed for backup. He fired one shot that Famine deflected easily before dropping down to his level and extending one hand in his direction. He had not been a portly fellow, officer Derringer, but he was fit and well feed. In a breath, his bones started to show, hands shaking from the sudden seeming lack in his system. He tried to aim for a second shot, but the gun was too heavy. It clattered to the pavement as he dropped to his knees and fragile bones shattered from the impact. The few others about could only watch in sick fascination from behind overturned tables and the coffee shop counter as he screamed. The sound died all too quickly, his throat closing for want of water. Officer Michael Quincy Derringer died in full view of a dozen people without one hand being placed on his body. Then the two women, one of them responsible, simply lifted into the air and were gone.

Backup arrived to find Derringer dead and no one quite capable of telling them exactly what happened. One coherent person, a poet, said: "It was as though a thousand years of poverty occurred in the space of a breath, rotting him before our very eyes. All at the behest of a woman who could only be called an ebon goddess." Poets do have a tendency to dramatize, don't they? Yet no one there, not one single person, contradicted those statements. Most just nodded numbly in assent, eyes full of the murder that wasn't quite a murder. Desiccated, Derringer was gathered up carefully to put in the body bag. Luckily he had no family to notify, no children that he was leaving orphaned. Well, lucky for them, it didn't matter for him anymore. He'd already had the worst luck of his life, being the first respondent to a scene where the Horsemen, a group that the mortal world as yet did not know and thus did not fear, were present. That would undoubtedly change, perhaps far sooner than anyone cared to believe for now.

They were four. The tribe was completed with the addition of Mystique, the many faces of Death.


	8. Chapter 8

Poisyn was once more her silent self, unaware of her lapse and even of the name Nathaniel Essex any longer. That pleased Master Apocalypse to no end; however, the very change gave him cause for alarm. It was too easy. The woman behind those green eyes had never been easy. So he sat back, hands in a gesture of penitence before him, winding his way through the maze of his mind. The Chancellor was sitting, lotus position, on the edge of the dais looking at nothing in that disturbing to some fashion that he had of looking at things.

"If I may be so bold, Master," though he had not opened his eyes, the Chancellor didn't need to. "If she is so much as to cause disquiet, why do you allow her to exist?" The question was one that he would not have asked in the weeks previous, but the more time that his sovereign spent brooding over this woman, the more he wondered if perhaps there was too much pride connected to her possession. After all, why does one keep a vicious dog if not for the status that such a creature conveys? Certainly not for hope that you will get your own hand bitten off. "Would your cause not be better served by disposing of her before she can become the seed of its downfall?"

"I will dispose of her when the time is right," though he knew what he held in his hand was a torch burned almost to the nub, the deity called Apocalypse was loathe to let it go. All that was required to make his possession complete would be the destruction of Sinister, not an undoable feat by any means. The only question was when was the best time to get rid of his former protégé? Calmed by the contemplation of Sinister's demise, Apocalypse sat back on his throne, aware of the return of his other horsemen. War and Famine had brought him the Death he had been keeping an eye on for a time. No one would have expected his choices of horsemen, but seeing them in action would put to rest any doubt. Already, though he did not know, the ripple 

of awareness was passing through the human world. Seeing Famine in action was only a taste, but even that was enough. More than enough truthfully.

Death, formerly Mystique, stepped into the throne room and looked around with eyes that were less curious and more interested in finding whatever escape routes there might be. She wore nothing more than a sarong tied around her waist, blue skin reflecting the light. Her eyes had shifted to topaz, a darker yellow than they had been previously, but what difference did it truly make? War and Famine were sitting off to the side as Death entered. Pestilence reclined on the stairs of the dais. Death walked up to her and nudged her with her foot. Pestilence simply looked up at her with flat green eyes. These were two women who on their best day hadn't gotten along well, not since the years they had worked together, a conning team capable of scores that would have made most men eternally jealous.

"We have a job to do," she wasn't just addressing the woman lying at her feet, but also the other two sitting on the sideline. "So let's get about doing it, ladies." Her scales fluttered and her skin went from blue to warm brown.

"Where?"

"The mutant nation," not a single pause. "They provide the most possibility of resistance, so we start with them."

The mutant nation also provided the most likelihood of bringing the horsemen down before they could truly begin. The only thing that could draw them away from the power that 

Apocalypse held over them was the care of another. Famine had her husband and son. Pestilence, her husband. Death, her son. Even War had her old loves and family. All of them had someone who could crack the wall built around their minds.

Better to have them destroy those who had any hope of drawing them away first than to allow them to possibly foil his plans later. The flyers picked up those who could not and carried them away toward the stronghold of the Mutant Nation. Apocalypse watched them go, eyes unreadable, the Chancellor at his elbow.

"Get in touch with our operatives in the U.S.. It's time to move against what's left of the human government." Precision. His horsewomen were on the move, he didn't want to give anyone time to mount a defense. Three days. Within three days, he would rule the world.


	9. Chapter 9

The Essexes were hardly what one would consider a family. In fact, of the five children, only one of them came into the world with the understanding that their last name was Essex. The other four were born and generally abandoned before they reached the age at which they could talk. The two youngest, Billie and Madonna, were the ones who spent the most time with their Mother. In fact, young Billie had been with Lenneth when she took sixteen bullets and was left for dead in the middle of the Canadian winter. That was before Billie herself was taken and then lost in the New York child services system. Madonna, her twin, had already been adopted off before that happened and was raised with no knowledge of her twin.

Both would be adults before they met. Both would be adults when they died, fighting the good fight as so many would call it. Everyone, all mutants, fought the good fight which toward the end was just an exercise in futility, trying to survive against a political machine that only wished to grind them to dust and then burn even the dust away for fear of the taint. Five children: Raven Diana, Nathaniel Jr, Jonathan, Madonna, and Billie Jean. All of them had at one time held the name of Ascher. The name that their mother had given them, names that none of them understood until approached late in their lives by a woman that they knew as little more than an instinct, a scent on cradle clothes. Lenneth Ascher always came back to her children. It was that instinct in her that Essex was counting on.

Diana looked up at her Father with flat eyes that only occasionally flickered toward her siblings. She had met each of them prior to her own death, but that didn't mean she had any attachment to them. They were just faces that she happened to know.

"Well, Father," she was not exactly the most patient of women either. Now that the youngest, Billie Jean, was out of the growing goop and on the floor the black tendrils of her power curling around her body like so much demented string, it was time for their collective Father to come clean about his plans.

"Are we all awake and listening," he said, settling himself at his desk. Billie hopped up on the edge of the desk, looking like some kind of cat doll, her hands on the edge of the desk, long fingers curled around the edge. The sound coming out of her throat was a mutated growl. Madonna moved up next to her sister and ran one hand through her black hair, stroking her like one would a cat. The two were twins, frighteningly alike, one with a voice, the other without.

"Tell us or let us go, Father," Nathaniel Jr., often called Edward so as not to confuse Father and son, had found one of their Father's dress shirts and was buttoning it on. He refused to wear hospital scrubs. "We have other things to do."

"I seriously doubt that," so very mild, ruby eyes that didn't even move toward the child who bore his name. "You are all dead." There was no point in mincing words. Jonathan was the only one who didn't blink, but he didn't blink at anything without there being some kind of pain attached. "And your mother has been subverted by Apocalypse."

"Points for creativity, Father," it was Jonathan who spoke first. "Do tell us another bedtime story."

"You're not making this up," Madonna was not always prized for her sanity, but rather for her ability to think quickly and use a situation to her best advantage. "Why bring us back then? Some misplaced nostalgia?"

"No," nostalgia was hardly a strong suit for the Dead man. "You can break the hold he has on her. That's why I brought you back."

"What difference should it make to us who Mother is enslaved to? It's him or it's you, there isn't much difference."

"Then I suppose it is of no consequence to any of you that so long as she remains Apocalypse's pawn, the likelihood is that humanity will not last another month."

"The old man will not kill all, he never does. Perhaps it is for the best, let him cull the weak. Then we can take top position from him and rule ourselves." Billie whistled at the thought, an unhappy sound to be sure, her dissent against such a plan.

"Billie has a point. If we allow Apocalypse to consolidate his power, there will be no ousting him." There were few who could understand Billie at all and Madonna was the only one who could interpret her various whistles, grunts, and growls completely by sound alone. "We stop Grandpa now or not at all."

"I don't care about stopping Grandpa. So what if he wins?"

"I don't care about stopping Grandpa either, but Mother is our mother. So I'm in." Trust Madonna to see it at its simplest. Billie bobbed her head in agreement with her twin. The two of them were in. Sinister only sat back and listened to them bicker among themselves. "So you guys wanna say that you're gonna leave Momma to rot?"

The others looked from to another, the elders pushed by the choices of their younger siblings. "Guess we're all in then," said Raven with a shrug.

"Good. Then let's get started." Sinister stood up from his desk and unfolded a map. "We have work to do."


	10. Chapter 10

Grand showdowns are the things that people remember; however, sometimes it is the quiet deaths that mean so much more. To say that they fought and in the end they won is unnecessary. After all, someone survived to tell the tale. If Apocalypse had won, well, we can all say that the story would have died with those who chose to stand in his way. Such is his way. However, as I write this, the final chapter in a story over 200 years in the making, I find myself wondering if the ending is really all that important. If hearing of that final great sacrifice is really worthwhile. Mistress Essex, Poisyn, Chemistry, and in her final moments, Pestilence died. Not without her moment of redemption, not without the memory of her husband's face in her eyes and mind, but simply she did what had to be done and she died. I've brought you this far, I suppose I owe it to those who have read all the way through to this point an ending, even if it is one with which none will agree.

The horsemen (Death, Pestilence, Famine, & War) turned eyes toward the Mutant Nation. Apocalypse stayed behind at his stronghold. The Essexes, all of them, had gathered and were on one accord regarding the disposition of the Queen Mother. The stage was set for the showdown.

Billie was the youngest, the thinnest, but far from the weakest of the Essex children. Madonna teleported the group in and then turned to her sister and said,

"Scout." Billie made a chittering sound with her teeth and took off. The others hunkered down to wait. The little girl would do what she did best, find out the layout, get a troop count, and bring it back. Meanwhile, Madonna determined where exactly Apocalypse was within the stronghold and prepared to move her family members to the spots that were best. They still had the element of surprise. It would be wonderful if they could keep it that way. Billie crawled through and around the building, carefully staying out of sight when others came close until she had the building memorized. Then she headed 

back. When she returned, Madonna embraced her sister, opening her mind to the memories that Billie had just recently acquired.

"Edward and Nathan, prepping to send you to the primary command post. You're going to have to disable the technology. Raven, dropping you in the middle of the troop depot. Billie and Father are going after Apocalypse and I'll stay here, out of sight, so I can pull you out if you need me." That was the agreed upon plan. Now if only things would continue to go according to plan. Splitting up, they went their separate ways.

If Essex had to pick which one of his children he liked best, it was most likely Billie just because she was quiet and knew how to be unobtrusive, very rarely did she see the need to be bothersome in the time that he had spent with her. Now, teleported into the throne room where Apocalypse stood, she showed him again why she might be his favorite. She awaited no order but immediately fell upon the Chancellor like a ton of bricks despite her negligible size. Apocalypse only turned to watch as his underling sought to save his own life from the monster shadow that descended upon him.

The battle actually made him smile an old wolf smile. Perhaps there were other members of the Essex family he could make use of.

While Essex and Apocalypse stood opposite one another like two kings on a nearly empty chessboard and the Chancellor fought for his life, Raven was decimating the acquired human forces. Her body nearly invulnerable save for a few key places, she used her super strength to knock back the defenders, turning their own weapons back on them. Perhaps the worse part of it was how she laughed that low chuckle of hers through the entire encounter. So like her, to laugh like a maniac as death followed in her wake. Her 

brothers had finished off the guards in the control room and Edward had just slammed his hands down on the keyboard.

"You can keep them out?"

"You're making it sound like this is the first time I've covered your ass while you do something," Jonathan forced the doors shut and barred them with his telekinesis. "Just hurry up. Raven's lost the element of surprise and you know how much she hates to have to deal with lasers." Even as Jonathan spoke, Edward was losing distinctness save for around his hands were a green glow had appeared. That glow was draining into the keyboard, allowing him to abandon his physical form and take over the computer system. "I'd rather not give her a reason to thump my skull."

"I can always go hide in the defense network until she calms down," the voice was now coming through the PA system. Edward was fully integrated into the security system of the fortress.

"Oh shut up, showoff," a few guards had started to realize what was going on and were rushing the door causing Jonathan some minor strain as he held off their advances. "Shit," an alarm started to go off, the lights going from their fluorescent white to deep red. Then a safety door slammed shut, cutting off the control room.

"Take a breath, junior," the computer advised him. "I just activated the security protocol to protect the control room from outside invasion. We're safe for now." In another part of the fortress, that same computerized voice notified Madonna that it was now safe to move to the control room, they had it sealed. The younger sister moved, thankful that she hadn't been caught in any real action as of yet. Not 

that Madonna couldn't fight. She just didn't want to. More of a slink around in the dark personality really.

Computers generally don't curse; however, when it was taken over by a human mind, computers do a lot of things that they don't normally do. The computer, well Edward really, released a string of curses that said nothing good about whatever it was that he had seen.

"The Horsemen are coming back. QUICKLY!"

"Tell Raven to shift position to intercept. Jonathan, come on," Madonna was pulling her older brother to his feet and urging him into one of the shiny metal walls. "We've got to slow them down." Notably, she didn't say stop them. Madonna had no thought at all that she or any of her siblings except maybe Raven had any chance at all of surviving a head to head battle with one of the horsemen.

"You're joking right," was the last thing that Edward remembered hearing before the sound of Madonna screaming. That was going to haunt him for the rest of his natural life; however long that happened to actually be. Yet he relayed the message, thinking of how much Madonna reminded him of their mother, bossy but generally right. Though one had to wonder exactly what they were buying time for. Their Father hadn't thrown the first punch at Apocalypse yet. They were all going to be sacrificed to a maniac. If that wasn't so damn typical, he'd have been pissed.

The Chancellor put up a good fight, one that was just ending as War knocked down the throne room doors. Billie had just skewered him through and was flagging his limp body around like some kind of ragdoll, a smile underneath those alien black eyes. The little girl did so enjoy a good kill. Her excitement 

was short lived as Madonna's body was tossed across the marble floor toward her, lifeless. The child spider abandoned one corpse for another, gathering up her twin and hugging her to her small chest, a keening wail building in her throat. Then she launched herself at War, fully intent upon destroying the offender. Both leaders simply looked on, impassive. Death appeared out of War's shadow and took one shot at Billie, pushed off target by Jonathan who leaned against the broken doors. He'd been too late to help Madonna, since he'd been dealing with bringing down Famine, but he wasn't going to miss twice. Just as Death moved to fire again, he stamped down on her mentally, crushing her body to the floor. He'd kill that bitch if he could, to keep her from destroying any more of his family.

Pestilence entered and snatched Jonathan up by the back of his neck and he screamed at her,

"Mother, stop!" In that moment, she hesitated. War and Billie danced across the floor, striking at each other and the blows seeming to simply glance off. Death, however, took that moment to take another shot, not at Billie but at Essex. A futility, but she took it anyway. It bounced off his armor and broke the paralysis that seemed to have covered him. Jonathan continued to scream, though it was becoming less articulate as it went on. Then she discarded him to the floor.

Apocalypse still just looked on, no more interested in the proceedings than he had been in most affairs. Whoever won this battle, he would still come out the winner. He would still come to rule in the end. His operatives throughout the human world were already moving to take their objectives. The fact that the horsemen had been derailed was of little importance. Things would be set to rights as soon as Pestilence got rid of Essex, just as he knew she would. The two were coming across the floor at each other like a pair of titans.

No, something was wrong. He sensed it and started to move. Pestilence grabbed ahold of War as she passed, easily inserting her nails into the other woman's skin as if her defenses were down. With nothing but a touch, she poisoned War. Death didn't even see her do it, busy with Jonathan who was blocking her repeated attacks with telekinesis that was rapidly failing.

"Do you still have that vial of my blood?," she asked the question as Pestilence drew past Sinister.

"Yes."

"Then do what it is in your nature to do." He shot Death away from Jonathan and gathered up his son. Billie joined him in heading out of the throne room. Madonna was left behind, but that made little difference. If he cloned her once, he could do so again. Edward joined them as they escaped from the stronghold and asked the question,

"Where's Mother?"

"She's not coming." The walls were starting to take on an odd sheen. "We need to go, now." Gathering them together, he teleported them out.

Mystique and Storm walked out of the Australian desert together three days later, both of them looking as though they had seen ghosts, a strange look for either of them considering what they had been through previously. Neither of them could answer what exactly had happened to the Lady Essex, only that Apocalypse was gone as she was. Essex himself only listened politely as they gave their statements to Master Wagner. He'd been offered his place back, but what difference did it make to him? The 

Mutant Nation was no longer his concern. He had lost his wife and two of his three daughters to Apocalypse's machinations.

In truth, he wanted nothing more than to just settle into his retirement and do what it was in his nature to do, just as his wife asked. He had yet to go back to London when the word came that the humans were once again in trouble. Surprising, not at all, he just shrugged when asked about it. Let the humans kill themselves. Perhaps Apocalypse had achieved his aim after all. The humans were doing what it was in their nature to do also; killing each other off as quickly as they possibly could.

Once again in Quiet Man's hall, he sat looking at the blue/green glow that came from the cloning tube that he kept there. Just looking at the glow and the body that was starting to grow within it. Already she was starting to become herself, that beautiful, darling woman that she had once been. She was poison perhaps, but he was immune. It was just in his nature, just like it was in hers. Poison and depravity, two perfect little companions.


End file.
